


o'death

by death_of_romeo



Category: Sugar Pine 7 (Video Blogging RPF), Sugar Pine 7 RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, Spooky Pine 7 AU, warnings for necromancy/death/reanimation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 21:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_of_romeo/pseuds/death_of_romeo
Summary: The world was already beginning to fade away when a voice shouted from afar, begging for the creature to stop. Parker had a brief thought of recognition — is that Steve? — before his surroundings finally faded to background noise, a distant opening act finally drawing the curtains.  // a spooky pine 7 fic, centric on parker & jeremy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as always, previously posted on @ sugarpinecrews on tumblr!

 Steven stands straight, hands buried deep in his front pockets, gaze colder than usual. In the moonlight, his eyes have a strange sort of glimmer, as if tears trying to hide, or, a more likely reasoning, the unknown striking fear in his long stopped heart. At his side stands Cib, his eyes dancing erratically between the ground, his feet, and Jeremy, who responds to this sight only with silent anticipation, an opening for the pair to explain whatever mess they’d found themselves in this time.

         Emotional withdrawal came with few downsides, especially given his current lifestyle. Although his friends easily passed as typical humans, Jeremy knew their secrets; the vampire too stubborn to acknowledge a body turning feral, a werewolf too ignorant to distance himself when instinct takes hold, the demon who has gone through countless expendable bodies in his centuries spent in this realm — Jeremy lived as a lone necromancer, a specialist in the dark arts, and this lifestyle came with its own set of secrets. The collection of bodies hidden in the freezers downstairs, the organs lining shelves and tables, the vials of indiscernible contents — his roommates knew to never step foot in his work space, as did they know to never question the chanting, the strange scents emanating from behind closed doors. The others knew even less, only that remains, rather dead or dying, could be given to him with no questions asked. He would find a use for them, and that would be that.

           Recognizing signs of death became second nature as time passed by, impromptu autopsies occurring in a darkened basement in the middle of another Friday night. A vampire’s attack presented much different destruction than an accidental gunshot, or vehicular manslaughter, or strangulation, and Jeremy knew to never question his friends’ decisions. He could only assume the raw, feral drive a vampire must experience, and he saw no need to pry for the details; just as he didn’t question their motive or reasoning, they knew to never question him, never asking what occurred once a body has been taken in by their friend. This was probably for the best; he doubts the men, even despite their immortal or supernatural instincts, could quite stomach his nightly routines and rituals. 

             Often, regardless of the one responsible, the delivery would be made by Steven. A simple text would be sent — a short ‘ _on my way_ ’, or a quick ‘ _got you another one_ ’ — and Jeremy would free the space necessary to house the newest addition to his collection. Typically, too, the body would still be in decent enough condition; if a vampire has killed a victim, fatality usually didn’t lie in blunt trauma, or disruptive entry against a cavity somewhere — it would be blood loss, bite marks against the throat or shoulder blades, and Jeremy could work with this. Cleaning blood from skin was a simple job, one he could busy himself with once the evening has fallen dark, or when the world has yet to awaken.

            It was rare a body was gifted to him that wasn’t the direct cause of Steven’s rage. There was the handful of mistakes — the ones Cib accidentally shot, or found himself drunkenly beating to death outside of another bar somewhere — but those tended to be the only exceptions. Jeremy knew the third member of the group committed atrocities, knew James more than capable of doing so, and always wondered when he would receive one of these all too unlucky victims. Curiosity, though unspoken, piqued at just the thought of the damage a werewolf could do to a body; still, this didn’t strike him with any unnecessary concern when the full moon again cycled their way. He even joked with his roommates about the supposed dangers of its influence, taking pleasure in scaring the more timid of the two.

* * *

            Night fell hours ago, and Jeremy retreated to busy himself downstairs well before this occurred; he intended to reach out to the spirit of one of Steven’s latest victims, a woman in her early twenties that appeared to be in pristine, healthy condition prior to the attack. He had no pressing matters to discuss with her; perhaps he could ask of her death, receive details regarding his friend’s M.O. — he wouldn’t ask the man himself, as he didn’t think the topic that dire, but he had nothing better to do tonight. His roommates busied themselves upstairs, presumably with a movie or video games, and he considered, more than once, sneaking up behind them, frightening them once more of the horrors awakened by the full moon shining bright outside. These ideas were quickly dashed, shoved aside in favor of his work, and the joke was soon forgotten. It isn’t until his phone buzzes on the table nearby, vibrating with a new text message, that he remembers his friends possibly missing his presence upstairs.

          The phone vibrates once, then again. Upon the second message, he decides to humor the men upstairs, hoping the response will dissuade them from coming to physically find him. Materials are placed aside, and he moves to grab his phone. Immediately, he is puzzled by the messages. Both from Steven, they contain little Jeremy has come to expect from him.

           _We have something for you, on our way._

_We’re so sorry._

          The latter of the two is strange, something Jeremy, in all his time knowing the vampire, has yet to experience firsthand; what would the man have done to have any guilt over? Even when corpses are gifted his way, another victim of the immortal’s latest anger, there was never any regret, never any negative response. Then came the inclusive phrasing, the ‘we’ rather than ‘I’ — who was with him? Cib, James? He didn’t like the idea of a group coming into his home, much less his personal work space; he opens the text message completely, ensuring the read receipt will appear, and then places his phone back onto the table. He leaves this here as he leaves the room, heading upstairs to see if his roommates were still up — it was nearly eleven in the evening, but he wouldn’t put it past the pair to stay up even later.

           Upon entering the living room, he finds the space abandoned. Assuming the two went to bed, he busies himself cleaning up the mess they left behind, ensuring that he’ll be near the front door when the company finally arrives. He hopes the encounter will be brief, just as each other drop-off has been; Steven will park nearby, hand the cadaver over, and then disappear into the night. He wouldn’t have time to do much with the corpse tonight, given the spells and rituals he still intended on participating in once this interaction has ended, but it would give him something to do tomorrow, and for that he was thankful.

            Perhaps a half hour passes by before a knock at the door is heard. Jeremy approaches, readying himself for whatever nonsense was soon to envelope him, but nothing could prepare him for the presence awaiting him on the other side of the door.

           Steven stands straight, hands buried deep in his front pockets, gaze colder than usual. In the moonlight, his eyes have a strange sort of glimmer, as if tears trying to hide, or, a more likely reasoning, the unknown striking fear in his long stopped heart. At his side stands Cib, his eyes dancing erratically between the ground, his feet, and Jeremy, who responds to this sight only with silent anticipation, an opening for the pair to explain whatever mess they’d found themselves in this time.

     _Uh, shit,_ Steven starts, stuttering his way into an explanation. He bites his bottom lip, takes in a shallow breath; Jeremy is surprised to see such a distressed presentation, but he doesn’t express this, only allows silence to give way to more of an explanation. He had a busy night planned, after all, and didn’t wish to waste any more time than necessary with this. 

        _It’s the full moon_ , Cib interjects, and Steven’s expression paints one of annoyance at the words. Jeremy supposes the moon has something to do with their odd behavior, but has little time to focus on this possibility before the men before him continue.

         _James freaked out and, uh_ , Steven pauses yet again as he explains, takes in yet another fearful, short breath. Minuscule mannerisms create an air of regret, one that is rather foreign to Jeremy, but this, too, isn’t rightly expressed, mostly due to his lack of interest in reasoning. Offhandedly, he hopes they’ve brought him one of James’ victims; he will soon curse himself for such a hope.

         _He killed Parker,_  Cib interjects yet again, and it is met with the same response as before; Steven looks to him in astonishment, as if saving those words for a later date, but Jeremy just continues to stand there stoic. He wonders, distantly, if this is what regret, or loss, or anger is meant to feel like. He wonders, too, if the pair standing before him truly did feel bad for the act — if James would later feel guilty for such a deed — but, as could be expected, none of these thoughts are spoken aloud. 

        _Show me the body_ , he says, and he is met with an awkward sigh from both men standing before him. He is led to Steven’s car, to the newly opened trunk; in it lies a trash bag tied loosely shut, and another bag left wide open. In the latter, Jeremy can make out what appears to be entrails, organs ripped from their typical resting places — silently, he reminds himself to clear his coming plans. It was going to be a  _long_  night.

* * *

         The sun rises above the city, and Jeremy continues to labor over a bloodied table. He has stayed here all night, cleaning limbs clear of blood, organizing organs and muscles, stitching skin together where applicable. Many wounds would require more resilience, time that he didn’t have available right now; decomposition has already set itself in motion, and he needed to get certain tasks finished before he placed the body over ice. His mind focused on little other than his work all evening, even doing so well into the morning. It isn’t until there is a knock at the door that he snaps out of his precise haze and remembers a factor he hasn’t yet considered.

         _You in there?_ , he hears on the other side of the door, mentally kicking himself for forgetting the existence of his remaining roommate; how was he to explain this loss to his friend? Typical humans experienced emotional attachment, and he knew this all too well — with little knowledge of sympathy and loss, he decides to do the unthinkable, never once pausing his work as he does so.

          _Yeah_ , he says, currently with both arms reached into the chest cavity of their shared best friend. Ribs stab themselves into the air, flesh ripped apart, exposing empty space where the organs setting on the table across the room are meant to be. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself to be understanding of whatever reaction this sight receives, and continues to speak.  _Come on in._


	2. Chapter 2

    There was little in the way of fear or concern, and withdrawal from emotional bounds slowly became only second nature; time passed by, the world cycling through rounds of devastation, bouts of destruction caused by seemingly outside forces, and Jeremy merely buried himself in his studies. Other realms wasted no time in mourning, spirits spending but seconds considering the troubles they may have caused. The deceased worried not of the outside world, this realm that Jeremy found himself captive in, and he appreciated the distraction ( even if this difference between reality and spiritualism would soon end, even if he would soon find himself attempting to summon the spirit of a deceased friend, a soul forced out by unnatural means — it was fun while it lasted, he supposed ).

         He knew from the beginning that this career choice was meant to be shrouded in darkness, enveloped in an evil most people would rather not imagine, but he never did see it as so. Death was inevitable, yes, an ending that would exist regardless of any distant hopes of peace, but most still didn’t wish to discuss it. This fact, though obvious to him from the start, still bothered him when presented by friends and loved ones; attempts of forcing them into the topic would eventually become fewer and further between, as fatigue wrought weary holes into previously insistent perseverance. As time went on, he decided to simply allow them whatever oblivion they chose; he would deal with their stubborn ignorance when they finally passed — spirits always seemed much easier to interact with, anyway, though he often neglected to speak this opinion aloud ( for fear, perhaps, of his friends placing even more distance between them — life needed equal halves in order to be fruitful, and he knew this all too well ).

         He was only a child when he first experienced death. Helping to care for pets never proved a beneficial task for the boy, always finding himself left with a dead fish, a deceased dog, or cat, or hamster — he wished to believe their souls never truly disappeared, that loss of life would only lead to a more fulfilling afterlife, and this belief only continued to accompany him into adulthood. He began to study the deceased young, attempting to contact the spirits of lost loved ones in his early teenage years; spells spoken in a hushed tone following the completion of homework, rituals completed before he left for school in the morning — early on, he learned to never label himself an artist of the deceased. Most believed these studies a sign of witchcraft, a deal with the devil made in cold blood, and he never wished to cast himself aside. Studies fell into secretive shadows, and he simply learned to accept this as the norm. It kept strangers from interfering, at least, and he appreciated this aspect of it the most.

          His first cadaver was witnessed before he even hit twenty years of age. Rather than admitting to officials the sight, he simply took it into his place of residence; a risky decision, perhaps, but he saw no real harm in the matter. Death was an end to life, and where was the sense in burying a body that could still be put to good use? He labored in isolation for weeks, cleaning the body torn by violence, wiping blood clean from exposed wounds — attempts were made to contact the spirit of the deceased, and despite the loose interactions experienced, Jeremy still felt himself capable of more. He tried to bring the soul back to this realm, attempted in vain to resuscitate the deceased, but found himself inevitably exhausting all available resources. The body was burned — a promise to the spirit that her corpse could never be manipulated again — and he went about his life, researching any new corpses tossed his way ( which, as time went on and new friendships developed, began to become more and more frequent ).

            Eventually, he would come into contact with a group of special, supernatural beings. Although they masqueraded as humans, he could sense the weakened soul, a spirit that has long since fallen victim to immortality. The demon possessed nothing of a soul, presented itself more as a gross amalgamation of those he has tortured in his past, those bound to him through a desire for vengeance; Jeremy could feel their pain, sense their deaths repeating themselves over and over and over again — the others possessed souls of an individual, a spirit still flickering behind the muzzle of something much stronger than any human form imaginable. The soul of a man held captive by a wolf’s heart, a vampire living life as though a servant of death — in exchange for the bodies of their unlucky victims, he would provide them with the tools necessary for survival. A continued supply of blood, a seemingly endless supply of fresh meat, of clean, untouched sustenance — despite the trade-offs occurring just outside, his roommates continued to remain oblivious, simply living their normalized lives, routine painting the peculiar as expected.

          Unknown cadavers, bodies desecrated by an attack from a supernatural force — more often than not a vampire he loosely considered a friend — came to scatter the room he spent more time in than he probably should. Backs propped up against a wall behind, bodies poised as though simply sitting in anxious anticipation — an imprecise schedule rotated around a list of meetings and rituals, and he even penciled in these plans on a calendar hanging near the door. One day he would summon the spirit of a woman murdered outside of a corner store, the next he would attempt to ward off any negative entities still lurking in the crevices of this dusty old basement; a cleansing was scheduled at least once a week, a ritual he did more out of a habit than any real fear. He supposed it was better to be safe than sorry ( a notion his roommates would graciously thank him for, were they to know of any of this ).

        Most, of course, believed him to be capable of much more than he truly was. Shadows of mystery blanketed themselves across a room off limits to any other than himself, and this is how he chose to operate, studying his craft in solitude rather than with any unnecessary interruptions. His roommates didn’t question his unspoken dealings, didn’t ask of the oft-thought strange scents emanating from behind closed doors, didn’t ask of the repeated requests spoken into silence, the handful of unknown materials he trudged down to his work space unexplained; undisclosed events existed in darkness not out of fear, nor out of elitism, but rather out of disinterest. He didn’t feel his friends truly intrigued by his work, nor did he really wish to traumatize anyone not ready to experience death just yet ( but, as could probably be expected, he possessed little control in forces existing outside of his area of influence — there would always be entities pulling strings of actions just outside of his reach, and he came to learn this first hand ).

* * *

             It is the evening of the full moon when Jeremy is pulled from his work, binds of focus broken as acquaintances stand awkward at his front door.  _We are so sorry_ , they say, as if expecting outward expression of grief, as if loss would somehow strength an emotional pull he has neglected for so many years now. In the bright light of the moon up above, he faces the trunk of a car, sights set upon trash bags haphazardly tied shut, blood still staining the surface directly beneath them; despite disfigurement, he recognizes the body immediately as one of two roommates, now gathered like debris and brought to him in, what, fear? Desperation? Ignoring the feelings of anger, of guilt, of regret bubbling just beneath the surface, he chooses to only curtly nod in response, silently beginning to transfer the body to his typical work space. This corpse, as explained to him in passing, was the result of a werewolf’s wrath; he could still smell the scent of the beast, heavy and thick upon the destruction caused by sharpened claws, by teeth ripping through a human vessel — intrigue and curiosity, as usual, play a role in his research, and he quickly begins to toil with the remnants of yet another corpse awaiting a new life ( only, this time, it wouldn’t be the spirit answering to requests in hopes of peace on the other side — no, this would be a completely new beginning, and Jeremy would make sure of it ). 

              The study of necromancy presented itself only as communication with the deceased; historical accounts beckoned the ear of any interested in reanimation, but reality could not be rooted in mythological tales of war-torn soldiers recounting the terrors seen by a now-passed gaze. For this, he would need a more modernized retelling, a more concrete, definitive pedestal to stand upon, but despite studies spanning countless areas of belief, Jeremy still knew to be careful in combining different methods; thought to be blasphemous by any who caught wind of his past attempts at fully realized resuscitation, he tried his best this time to keep his newest thoughts more private. If he were to revive his newly-deceased friend, he would need to write his own rules, take pages from a book never before written.

              Voodoo was nowhere near one of his many areas of expertise, but he had very few options remaining; attempting to summon the spirit of his friend through typical necromancy rituals proved itself unreliable at best, and he saw no need in bringing the soul of a man back into this realm if a physical vessel was not available — the body would need to be fully resuscitated, and the spirit would need to be bound to it immediately upon revival. It was a risky task, that of full resurrection, but he knew himself capable of such a deed ( perhaps out of determination, or perhaps out of an attachment to the dead that he, even to this day, refuses to acknowledge ). 

               Countless evenings are spent in his usual work space, the corpse of his friend propped up on a makeshift operating table. Rituals of many different belief systems are performed, and many nights are spent in silent anticipation, sitting in the basement with nothing more than rotting cadavers to keep him company; on more than one occasion, movement is spotted — the twitching of a finger, the blinking of an eye, and yet no further expression of life is presented to him. Despite this, hope is never lost; Jeremy continues his attempts of summoning the spirit of his friend, continues his, as of yet, fruitless attempts of resuscitating the corpse placed before him — upon the fourth night, he finds himself becoming weary of this tiring routine. He tries a handful of rituals again, this time putting more desperation into his words, more emotion into his pleas; he busies himself at a table filled with varying substances and materials, setting things aside in jaded haste when —

              —  _help, I can’t…_

              “You’re fine,” he finds himself stating, words escaping lips well before he’s turned to face his newly-revived friend. With his back turned, he grins, excitement pulsating through his veins as he sets a glass down upon the table in front of him; the action gives him enough time to regain composure, to again place before him a mask of emotionless catatonia. His friend continues in his aim to speak, but difficulty must weigh heavy upon his tongue. “…you were dead. I brought you back.” he adds, reminding himself again to hide the smile threatening to dance across his features; and they said death was no fun.


	3. Chapter 3

      He remembered the fight, a brawl with an unknown _something_  or other; in the moment, he thought it may have been a wolf, or maybe just a large dog that’s learned to be feral and deadly — either way, he had very little time to analyze his situation before he was knocked back, falling to the concrete sidewalk beneath him. Hands flew up in some sort of weak defense, but they were no match for sharpened teeth glinting in the moonlight, or claws ripping through clothes; before he knew it, a midnight breeze was gliding across entrails, a cold he never dreamed he would experience — the world was already beginning to fade away when a voice shouted from afar, begging for the creature to stop. Parker had a brief thought of recognition — _is that Steve?_ — before his surroundings finally faded to background noise, a distant opening act finally drawing the curtains.

          When he awoke, he sat in a darkened room, the only light being an overhead lamp swinging recklessly above the center of the room. The first thing he noticed was the pain, that numb sort of soreness that accompanied a long night of sleep, or staying in one spot all day long; he tried to remember —  _where was I last? what happened?_  — but the sound of glass clinking at his side pulls him from these thoughts almost immediately. Despite his best attempts, he struggles to turn his head, to fully see the figure standing near his —  _bedside? operating table?_  He tries to speak, but finds the difficulty nearly unbearable; instead, he simply croaks out a low ‘ _help_ ’, a quiet ‘ _I can’t_ ’, a —

         “You’re fine,” the figure quickly responds, and Parker instantly places the sound to his best friend, Jeremy; this realization, paired with the confusion surrounding them, terrifies him, and he again tries to move and face his friend. The effort must go noticed this time, as the other man steps forward, moving to stand directly in front of…well, whatever it is he’s been placed on. “…you were dead. I brought you back.”

          Eyes go wide, blinking a few times in astonishment. This effort alone feels foreign, though he shoves that thought aside for the time being;  _dead?_ He thinks back to his last set of memories, the hazy encounter with the…wolf, or dog, or something else entirely — had the interaction killed him? Again, he tries to speak, putting more effort into preparing himself this time around. Slowly, he forms the words on his tongue, forcing his body to cooperate:

          “I…died,” he starts, somewhat satisfied with the sound the syllables made; they were disconnected, sure, but they were still comprehensible. He waits for Jeremy to gesture in agreement before continuing. “The…wolf thing,” he pauses once more, gathering his thoughts; the pain still stung — _maybe Jeremy is being honest_ , he thinks, _maybe my body isn’t used to this_  — but he still wanted to try. After a few moments’ thought, he continues. “…it…hurt. Hurt me.” 

           “Killed you,” Jeremy corrects, busying himself with runes, and bottles, and other things Parker doesn’t really want to think about for too long. His gaze follows his best friend around the room that he’s come to recognize as the basement of their shared residence, and Jeremy soon enough walks across the room, stops, and crosses his arms against his chest. “…get up, try to walk.”

             _Walk?_ , he thinks, unsure of what it meant; how was he to walk if he couldn’t even speak? Despite the fear bubbling up within, he forces his hands to grip to the smooth surface beneath him; fingers find the edge of the table, and he very slowly tries to push his body forward. The effort takes perhaps longer than Jeremy wished for it to, but Parker couldn’t find it in himself to glance over and see. He pauses when he is fully sitting up — a feat he didn’t expect to ever reach — and without giving it much thought, he shoves his body off of the table he’s rested on for who knows long now; feet hit the floor with force, and he reaches back to the table to try to steady himself. A gasp slips out as he stands there, finally catching sight of the grey tone coating his skin, the hastily sewn together pieces; he thinks it resembles a jigsaw puzzle forced to fit in all the wrong places, but he doesn’t allow himself to think on it for too long — he has a goal right now, and he couldn’t disappoint.

           “Why,” he mumbles, quiet and frustrated, as he releases his grip from the supposed operating table; shakily, he takes a step forward, his body wobbling side to side as he does so. He must look like a toddler taking its first steps, all unsteady and determined, as he teeters his way across the room. A couple of minutes later — and after many instances of Parker having to stop, collect himself, and continue again — he reaches his friend. A dumb grin breaks out as he achieves this, and he tries to express the excitement through a sloppily assembled sentence, as well. “…did it. A-…cross. I…”

            “Reach your hand up,” Jeremy interrupts, imitating his own instructions and raising his hand as if expecting a high five. Parker’s smile partially disappears, but he tries his best to mirror the gesture; steadily, he forces his hand up before inevitably pulling back, then pushing forward; the two share a messy high five, and the smile from before returns with even more force. “…we’ll keep practicing. You can’t go out like this yet.”

              _Go out?_ , he thinks, realizing suddenly that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind; he was alive again — or, so he assumed — and that meant that he would be living his life once more. What would his friends think of him now? Did they know that he was dead? The hesitation must be written clearly across his undead expression, as Jeremy immediately speaks up.

            “Just practice, we’ll go from there.” he starts before again repeating his order from before;  _raise your hand up_ , he says, and Parker puts more thought into the gesture this time. After thinking on it for a moment, he follows the command, his body moving in a much smoother fashion this time around. Even the high five appears more natural, but Jeremy doesn’t give him any time to revel in the victory. “Okay, explain what you just did.”

             “I…” again, speaking presents challenges, but he tries his best to hold a normal conversation. "…I walked. From…” he moves to look back, to gaze across the room; he ignores the new pain radiating throughout his body — a very new, very real pain, contrast heavily to that old waking pain from before— and as he moves to look back at Jeremy, he continues to try to speak. “…walked from there. To…right here.” 

            “And? What else?”

            “Uh…” he starts, pausing briefly before trying again. “…we high-fived…?” the statement comes out clear, spoken easily, and the hint of a smile sneaking its way across his friend’s expression is enough for him; maybe being undead wouldn’t be so bad, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

    He was brought back to life exactly fourteen hours and sixteen minutes ago. He only knows this because he has watched the time slowly pass by, second by staggered second; he has watched Jeremy leave him behind, well before the sun draped its warm hues atop the city, well before he found himself sitting alone in this now quiet home. The sun beams its rays impatiently across the floorboards, sketching lines of light cleanly through the living room, and Parker sits alone on the couch, directly in their line of sight. 

              Despite the sweater he’s wearing, despite the way he’s curled up in a fetal position on the couch, this frigid cool that has held him captive since resurrection has yet to release its firm grip. He spots a blanket on the couch opposite his own, and with an audible groan, he slowly begins to unfurl himself. Since being revived, he has learned that this trembling pain is simply his body relearning motion —  _you didn’t move for awhile_ , Jeremy explained to him, back when Parker was still wrestling with the notion of returning from a death he could only barely remember.  _You have to get used to it again._

              “Come on…” he whispers, whines the words into the empty space surrounding him as his feet finally touch ground. This, he thinks, is one of many small victories, and he allows himself a brief moment of pause in celebration; the sudden change in position bred a stinging sensation now radiating down his legs, and he moves his feet a little against the hardwood beneath in some attempt of dispelling the feeling; offhandedly, he remembers the painkillers kept in the bathroom cabinet.  _I’ll get those later_ , he silently reminds himself, stubbornly placing a hand against the side of the couch as he pushes his body forward.

               “O-…okay…oh, God,” again, he speaks into the silence. He forces his body to stand, and the pain that follows is nearly debilitating; he grits his teeth, grimaces as he attempts to steady himself. If Jeremy was here, he would be patient, he would be just distant enough to encourage independence, and this thought gives way to a sudden burst of determination — Jeremy would want him to succeed, and Parker couldn’t disappoint. Slowly, he takes a step forward, and then another; the action is awkward, appearing forced and foreign, and he eventually finds himself just in front of the couch opposite his first. In his excitement, he topples onto the cushions, groaning yet again as his body stills.

              After a few moments spent like this, he slowly begins to move into a more comfortable position; fingers find fabric, gripping the edges with a tight fist as he pulls the blanket across his body. This action does little to dispel the cold, but he decides simply to settle for this little triumph; there wasn’t any point in moving again anywhere else — not until he knew he had to — and so he just curled into the blanket, sought out solace in this new sort of stimulation.

              Only a few minutes pass by, and any hopes of stumbling upon sleep’s doorstep are quickly dashed as he hears what he believes to be footsteps.  _But Jeremy is gone_ , he thinks, worry suddenly seeping in; what if someone has broken in? Parker could do little in terms of protecting himself or warding off attackers, and that fact rang true even when he was alive;  _I can’t do anything like this_ , he thinks, this cruel reminder weighing heavily upon him as he lies paralyzed on the couch. He considers, however briefly, just pretending to be dead, hoping maybe a stranger would believe it to be the truth, but he has no time to do so before he hears the footsteps getting closer, and closer, and closer, and —

           — he closes his eyes just before the figure comes into view. If he’s meant to die again, then he will do it without seeing the horrors of his demise. That experience already occurred once, and the images of that creature shoving him violently to the ground, claws striking sharp through skin, teeth glinting in the moonlight, growls echoing against asphalt —

            “ _Parker?_ ” 

            Eyes that have since been shut tight slowly open, and his gaze settles upon the supposedly dangerous figure he was so frightened of. He blinks a few times, the effort still awkward and strange, and the fear within him begins now to morph itself into concern. Hands move to the cushions beneath him, and he pushes his body forward yet again, moving now to sit up against the side of the couch.

           “I…” he starts, the sound croaking its way into existence. He pauses, then tries to say something different; he tries to state the name of his new company, but the syllables come out mashed together, staggered into only slight recognition. “And…ah, an-…drew…?” he mumbles out these attempts, all failed and desperate, and his friend only silently moves to sit at the other end of the couch. He shoves the rest of the blanket towards Parker, tucking the ends beneath his friend’s feet before the conversation progresses any further.

          _“Are you okay? You don’t look good.”_

         The question causes even more concern to arise; did Andrew not know of his death? His revival? He supposed the latter would be obvious, what with the unnaturally pale pigment, the limbs hastily stitched back together, the smell of death that Jeremy insisted still permeated the air around him; Parker reaches one hand out, moving to slowly gesture to the various scars and stitches painting his skin. As he does so, he gathers his thoughts, hoping to speak more clearly this time.

         “Jeremy,” he starts, the sound abrupt, yet understandable. He moves the same hand now to pull the blanket further up against his body before inevitably just resting it against the fabric. He debates just how to explain his current predicament, living as a man who once died, a walking cadaver; would Andrew even believe him?  _I wouldn’t believe it_ , he thinks, but doesn’t allow this doubt to dissuade his decision. He had to tell  _someone_. “I…died.” he says, and the response he receives is not an expected one.

         _“Yeah, I know. You were in the freezer for a week.”_

          The statement is a simple one, and it brings about a new set of questions in Parker’s mind; did that —-

         _“And before you ask, that’s not why you’re cold. That’s the ‘still dead’ part.”_

         — and Jeremy did mention that, didn’t he? Parker mentally kicks himself for even doubting the man’s words to begin with, and he looks to Andrew now for comfort; there seemed little to benefit from in returning to this new life. He couldn’t have any food, couldn’t sleep; heck, he could barely even walk or talk. What reasoning did they have in bringing him back then? Did they just need someone to pick on? Someone they could always look at and laugh?

         In the silence, Andrew takes the initiative to close the space separating bodies. Arms reach out, gently helping Parker to change positions on the couch; the contact is jarring at first, startling enough to cause a visible tremble, but he soon calms into the touch. He allows his friend to assist him, to slowly shift their bodies closer together; again, stubborn determination presents itself as pain, but he tries his best to ignore it. Jeremy told him to practice, and this would have to do.

        After a few moments of this, the two sit peacefully side by side, Parker’s head resting softly against Andrew’s shoulder. He lets out a sigh, all exhausted and disappointed with himself, and Andrew again uses this opening to his advantage; a hand finds one of his friend’s, and he squeezes the grip just a little, just enough to get another sound out of the living corpse at his side. Parker, of course, lets out a surprised squeak, and a faint smile lingers as remnants of the exchange.

    _“See? You’re still just as cute.”_

        _No_ , he wants to say, but he instead opts for temporary silence. He attempts to return the gesture, squeezing his friend’s hand just as tightly, causing Andrew to yelp in response; Parker knows he didn’t do it that hard, knows the gesture was probably just barely even noticeable, but he appreciates the humor, nonetheless.  

      “S-…so are you,” he replies, thinking, for the first time since being revived, that maybe this new life won’t be so bad, after all. 


End file.
